I didn’t take a photo

I didn’t take a photo

Last week I had one of those magical whiskey moments, and I didn’t take a photo.

I say that with both a tinge of remorse and an inner pride. Remorse because I won’t be able to swipe back over thumbnails and trigger my mental file that contains the remnants of that moment. The file exists whether there’s that trigger or not, but it feels more fragile without the digital dust there to remind me of its existence. My memory just ain’t as good as I’d like it to be. Thus the remorse. I don’t want to lose the moments amidst the messy mental file cabinet in my head.

The pride? I’m sure this is a feeling that many of us over-Instagramming, over-tweeting, social media monsters experience now and again. We’ve succumbed to the social swirl of seeking likes and the notion that we’re “building our brand” every time we let you know that we’re drinking Cool Winemaker X or Rare Whiskey Y, or eating Crazy Dish Z from Awesome Chef 3000. And by we, I mean I. I’ve actually reached the point where NOT photographing and sharing something has an added sheen of inner value just from the fact that I’ve kept it to myself, that I’ve left the moment uninterrupted by the click of a button and the false light of a “smart” phone. That I let the moment just be.

Let’s just let the moments be. At least those magical moments. Those moments that demand uninterrupted attention and intention. That’s my intent.

Comments welcome, y'all!